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| Adapted from Lexi James and the Council of Girlfriends This is the night before the day of my wedding. The wedding I canceled. My best friends and I are commemorating the nonwedding by drinking champagne at the Ritz-Carlton Philadelphia. We call ourselves the Council of Girlfriends. These are not just any girls, and not just any friends. I have girlfriends, and then I have the Council of Girlfriends. My very best friends. Friends? Family. Sisters. The Council of Girlfriends knows the details of my life. I talk to them almost every day. Talk? We don't just talk. We debate, debrief, advise, justify, rectify, and argue about our lives. It comforts me to know that these women will call me if three days pass without me calling them. We know everything about one another. Food allergies, favorite TV shows, bra sizes, first boyfriends, and every heartbreak since. Because we know so much about each other, we act as an advisory board for life decisions big and small. I like having a committee to which I am responsible for my actions. On our way out of the Ritz, I spot George Larrabie, the president of Liberty Bank, a client of The Gold Group, of which I am the executive vice president. "Come say hello with me," I tell the COG. I introduce the Council of Girlfriends. "This is Lola Bravia," I begin. George gives Lola a long look, which is not surprising. Lola is an exotic, voluptuous Latina with dramatic eye makeup and expensive, colorful clothing and jewelry. "I've seen your TV show," George says. Lola owns one of the hottest restaurants in Philadelphia and hosts her own local TV cooking show. "I love to eat at your restaurant." "Muchas gracias." Lola bows her head. "This is Ellie Archer," I continue. "Ellie Archer," George murmurs. "The name sounds familiar." "She writes for Vanity Fair, the New Yorker, and sometimes for Philadelphia magazine," I explain. Ellie flashes her huge brown eyes and tugs at her shoulder length, brown hair. She raises one of her perfectly arched, Audrey Hepburn eyebrows and gestures to Grace. "Hi," Grace smiles at George and extends her hand. "I'm Grace Harte." Grace is a Gwyneth-esque WASP with long blond hair and blue eyes. Grace is beautiful, even in the scrubs she wears as an RN at Philadelphia Hospital. And me? I can't be as sexy as Lola, or my male clients would be all over me. I can't be as sophisticated as Ellie, because my female clients would resent me. I can't be as carelessly beautiful as Grace, because I'm not beautiful. I have to work at being attractive. My brunette bob is straightened every week, my nails are manicured every other week, and my eyebrows are waxed every two weeks. My makeup changes seasonally. I don't own shoes shorter than two inches. It takes a lot of work to look this natural. Plan M Later that night, I stare out my window and think about my life. I had a plan. I did. Actually? I've had several plans. This? Where I am now? This was not my plan. Plan A was this: Do well enough in high school to get into a good college. Graduate. Get a job. Work hard. Move up the corporate ladder. make enough money to buy nice clothes, rent a nice apartment, and pay off my student loans. Ta da. I've done all that. I accomplished Plan A before I turned twenty-eight years old. I moved on to Plan B. Which was this: Make more money. Rent a fabulous apartment. Travel. Save. Make more money. Be financially independent. I completed Plan B when I was thirty-one and a half years old. Then I went on to Plan C. Really, it was Plan M: marriage. I am thirty-three years old. I was thirty-two when Ron Anderson proposed marriage. Ron wanted Plan M and the real Plan C: children. Neither plan was of my choosing, but they seemed to the alpha woman things to do. I mean, what kind of woman wouldn't want to marry an attractive, successful lawyer and bear his children? Too late - as in, after I say yes - I realized that I didn't want to have Ron's children. Of course, I didn't want to marry Ron, either. So that worked out well. But now, tonight, sitting here alone in my apartment on what would've been the night before my wedding, I can't help but reconsider my plans and decisions. What if I miss my chance at maternity? I can't wait forever to have kids. Maybe there is a big countdown clock in my uterus. I thought it was only halftiime. Maybe I'm in the third quarter. Maybe I have only a two-minute time-out before the fourth quarter. Maybe it's time for a Hail Mary. I look at my clock and see that it is 12:03 AM. Here it is. The day I was to be married. Did I do the right thing by ending the engagement? Why do I keep questioning myself? This self doubt is a new thing for me. I have always known who I am. Now I'm wondering who I've become. Alexandra the Great I am Alexandra James. I have friends, a career, money, clothes, shoes and a swanky apartment on Rittenhouse Square. I even have a comfy, cozy, royal, queen-sized bed and sheets with a three-hundred-fifty-thread count. So I guess I've made it.
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